When I was four,

I loved to play pretend.

My pretending was as real

as the slants of golden light

that danced through my window

on crisp mornings in early fall.

 

In my world,

I was the queen

of a glittering realm of fairies with wings

that sent prisms of multicolored light

twirling and frolicking in all directions,

and dragons with hides like leather

and eyes like the greenest jade.

 

Though, in reality,

I was just a small girl

with a wild and fruitful imagination.

 

A girl whose mother dressed her

in warm mocha sweaters and blue jeans

with a pair of tiny black flats

and hats with smiling daisies.

 

This small girl lived for Sesame Street

and the hilarious adventures

of Scrat, the squirrel from Ice Age.

 

I remember long winter days,

making glittery paper crafts

and doing yoga with plush bean bag toys.

 

I remember my grandmother’s visits

with frosted, crumbly cookies

from her favorite kosher bakery

and the crinkle of wax paper.

 

I remember going on field trips

with my preschool

to the edible garden.

I used the fresh strawberries as fancy scarlet lipstick

to pair with the marigolds behind my oversized ears.

 

I remember the happy games I used to play

and the difficulty of seeing things

in a different way from everyone else

but never being shy,

and always remembering to be optimistic,

even in the hardest of situations.

 

Photo: unsplash/pixabay

 

Roën Rosenberg is a newly-minted 12-year-old who spends her time in the company of what she loves the most: animals (she has seven at home and acts in service of rescuing many others); books (her nose is almost always in one while she carries at least one other is her free hand while two others wait patiently on deck in her backpack); ice cream (Ben & Jerry have her number); Minecraft role-play YouTube series (Aphmau is her jam) and her wonderful imagination.